


we russians have nothing but our winter

by redbrunja



Series: we russians have nothing but our winter [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, Police Brutality, Resolved Sexual Tension, kink to work out emotional issues, midnight arrests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:35:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5218160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/pseuds/redbrunja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Behind the Iron Curtain, Illya's loyalties are tested.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Kremlin yanked on his leash and Illya obeyed.

 

While his superiors might have agreed to loan him to U.N.C.L.E, it was clear they didn't like it, didn't like U.N.C.L.E.'s success rate, didn't like that Illya wasn't bringing them information they could use to sink their teeth into America's flank.

 

So they liked to pull him back, randomly. Make sure that he still remembered where his loyalties lay.

 

Through a two-way mirror, Illya watched Comrade Sitnikov interrogate a dark-haired girl. Eva Koskova. Her pale skin was blotchy from her tears and she kept bringing her hands up to cover her face, her wrists handcuffed together, like she could hide from the man looming over her. Her left eye was swollen, beginning to darken with bruising.

 

"Her lover was stationed at the embassy in Lisbon. He liked to bring back 'souvenirs' for her to sell," Oleg commented, the first thing the man had said since Illya had entered the room twenty five minutes ago. Oleg stepped away from the mirror, pouring himself a cold cup of coffee from the carafe resting on the battered metal table that was the observation room's only furniture. It also held several stacks of files, a tape recorder, extra cassettes, several pads of paper, and a collection of pencils of various sharpness.

 

Oleg picked up one of the files, handed it to Illya as he returned to his position in front of the two way mirror.

 

Vasily Yuryev. Cultural attaché assigned to the embassy in Portugal. Currently in the wind, or he would have been the one answering Comrade Sitnikov's questions. Illya thoroughly read the file while Comrade Sitnikov repeated his questions, circling over the same ground. Eva Koskova's answers stayed the same. She didn't know where Yuryev was. It had all been his idea. She hadn't wanted to, but he'd forced her. She didn't know where he was. The only thing that changed was how garbled by sobs her words were.

 

"Yes, I'm sure you were completely uninterested in the luxuries of the West," Sitnikov said sarcastically. He lifted a pair of nylons from the contraband dramatically spread across the metal table. The fabric snagged on the broken vinyl of a record.

 

"It was his idea," Koskova said with a flash of stubbornness.

 

Illya looked at the broken record. The label was legible, even from the observation room. He recognized it. He knew what it sounded like. 

 

Six weeks ago, Gaby's flat. Napoleon was trying to teach her to correct way to make velouté sauce and Gaby had kept flitting out of the kitchen, more interested in resetting or switching the albums that she'd bought that afternoon.

 

Illya had been seated the entire length of the living room away from them. Their chatter, the music, the sounds of cooking - it was far too distracting for him to settle with the newspaper or a game of chess. But it had been an almost pleasant irritation, to listen, set apart from their cheerful chaos, and to watch. Solo with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, pouting dramatically as he guided Gaby away from the turntable. Gaby's playful resistance as she reset the needle and then let Solo lead her into the kitchen and put a whisk back into her hand.

 

Illya didn't let himself think about that evening. That happy memory had no place here, under Oleg's flinty eyes, watching a foolish girl being punished for her greed.

 

He could not remember Gaby and Napoleon here. He did not let himself think of returning to London, of the need to sweep Gaby's flat for listening devices, again. He could not allow himself to consider that this tableaux was a pointed reminder instead of a general one. He was still the loyal soldier Oleg had lent to U.N.C.L.E. months ago.

 

Sitnikov backhanded the girl.

 

"I don't care whose idea it was," he said. His eyes were bright, his expression that of a man in the midst of an important task. "I want you to tell me where he _is_."

 

Koskova started sobbing, her black hair falling across her face.

 

Illya remembered: Gaby's dark, tangled hair spread out across white pillows, the pleased, private curl of her smile. He set his jaw against the memory, forced himself to focus on the interrogation. This woman was not Gaby. He'd seen Gaby afraid, seen Gaby captured, and she was fire and defiance and spitting insults.

 

"Problem, Kuryakin?" Oleg asked when Illya shifted his weight.

 

"Comrade Sitnikov needs to prepare adequately," he said. He turned, set Vasily Yuryev's file back with the others stacked high on the observation room's table. "Yuryev is in Sverdlovsk, hiding in his aunt's home."

 

Illya returned to the window, crossed his arms. "This girl knows nothing."

 

The next morning, Illya and Sitnikov were on a train traveling East to Sverdlovsk.

 

Eva Koskova was shot before dawn.


	2. Chapter 2

A week later, Illya landed at Heathrow. He took a taxi into the city, stopped at his flat only long enough to set his suitcase beside the door, and then proceeded to U.N.C.L.E's London H.Q.

 

The administrative staff directed him to one of the larger conference rooms, where he found Gaby and Napoleon.

 

Gaby stirred a cup of coffee, frowning up at Napoleon. She wore slim trousers and a crisp white blouse, skin looking wonderfully tawny and hair dark. She looked like she’d stepped from some sunny city into London’s gloom, golden against the rain-streaked bank of windows at her back. Seeing her, knowing she was safe, was like a dislocated joint being set into place, or a circuit closing.

 

"If I want to see something ridiculous and bizarre, I'll go to the circus," she told Napoleon.

 

Napoleon closed his eyes, tsked. "Agent Teller, your artistic sensibilities...." he looked mortally disappointed.

 

"Are intact?" Gaby noticed Illya, and gave him a small smile that he felt like a caress. "Anyway, I have plans tonight," she said

 

Solo turned, lifted his chin to Illya. Then he leaned closer to Gaby, murmured into her ear, "is your Russian eating in or out tonight?" He spoke low enough that Illya had to read his lips to know what he'd said.

 

Gaby stepped towards Napoleon slightly, the heel of her pump firmly on the toe of Napoleon's blucher shoe as she gave Illya a small wave.

 

Illya glared at Napoleon.

 

"Cowboy," he growled. "Gaby." Even he could hear how his voice went softer when he said her name.

 

Solo dragged his eyes up and down Illya. "You look like you've had a refreshing flight from the Motherland."

 

"The plane landed on time," he answered. He was aware that both Napoleon and Gaby could likely see the limited sleep of the past week in the pallor of his face but they didn't say anything further about it.

 

Napoleon started rambling on about the office gossip Illya had missed and didn't care about, with a few random tidbits of relevant information throw in as asides, Gaby finished her coffee, and before long, Waverly came in to brief them.

 

The rest of the afternoon was taken up with briefings about a team in East Germany who had missed a check in. It was too soon to take any kind of action but contingencies were laid out and preliminary plans made. Gaby looked perfectly composed as the question of her returning to East Germany was raised and left on the table when Waverly finally dismissed them to other duties.

 

It was evening before Illya found himself alone with Gaby in her office.

 

Gaby tipped her face up to his expectantly, rising up on her toes, _demi-point_. She waited for him to bend down, press his lips to hers.

 

Another few hours to collect himself and he would have. It was abominably rude of him to keep standing there stiffly staring over her shoulder, but his back won’t bend.

 

She had risked so much to get free of the Iron Curtain. Illya felt  the weight of his allegiances on his shoulders and couldn't bear to taint her with them. He stood in Gaby's warm office with her, her eyes bright and lips waiting for his kiss, and he couldn't bear to mar her mouth with his. She would despise him if she knew.

 

After a moment, Gaby lowered herself back down to her heels.

 

"Illya," she said, a warning in her tone. "What's going on?"

 

He glanced down at her. She was glaring at him, her hands curled into tight fists.

 

He shook his head. "Nothing," he said shortly.

 

He listened to Gaby breath for a moment.

 

"Will you be joining me for dinner tonight?" she asked lightly, tilting her head to one side. He'd listened to her lay this exact same trap for half a dozen men, and just like every one of them, his reaction gave her the information she was hunting.

 

"No," Illya said.

 

Gaby jerked her head back like he'd struck her.

 

With such unerring timing that Illya was sure he'd had his ear pressed to the wood, Napoleon opened the office door, leaning into Gaby's office.

 

"Good, then you are free, Teller," he said. "I'll pick you up at seven."

 

"Fine. I'm delighted." She flung the words at Illya, her gaze fixed on his face. She was furious. "I can't possibly think of another way I'd like to spend my evening."

 

He said nothing.  Normally, he hated these excursions, the times that Napoleon would escort Gaby to various events. Even experience proving repeatedly that the evening would end with Gaby returning from a gallery opening or a film and coming to his bed did not soothe the sour jealousy that Illya felt at their plans, at Gaby and Napoleon’s effortless repartee.

 

Now, he was just glad of the opportunity to search her flat uninterrupted.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the rating and tags change with this chapter.

7:40 p.m. found him in Gaby's flat. He'd visited her building's telephone room first, and then checked the phone lines in her apartment. The only taps on her line were the U.N.C.L.E. sanctioned ones.

 

This wasn't the first time he'd searched Gaby's flat for surveillance devices but it ended up the slowest he'd scouted an apartment in his entire career.

 

Illya's attention was repeatedly caught by the evidence of his presence in Gaby's life. The Henry James novel he'd been making his way through, half-buried under one of Gaby's car magazines and a French edition of Vogue. His toothbrush and a spare razor in the bathroom's medicine cabinet. A coat of his that Gaby had borrowed one cool evening and never returned.

 

Besides U.N.C.L.E.'s telephone taps, there was only one piece of surveillance equipment in Gaby's flat: the engagement ring he'd bought her in Rome.

 

Half of her jewelry was properly put away in her jewelry box, but the engagement ring, three different pairs of earrings, a handful of bracelets, and an obscenely expensive and gaudy sapphire necklace Napoleon had stolen for her were spread across the vanity.

 

He was holding the bugged ring, staring down at it contemplatively, when he caught the scent of her perfume.

 

He turned and there she was, standing in her bedroom doorway. Gaby glared at him, one hand on her cocked hip. She was wearing a white and aubergine patterned single-strap dress that flattered the olive skin of her bare arms. Her hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, her make-up done dark for an evening on the town.

 

She looked beautiful.

 

He hadn't heard the door open, which meant that she'd climbed up her fire escape and come in through the living room window, without making a sound. He felt his lips twitch a little, pleased.

 

"I think I want to hear it," she said, carefully forming each word in English.

 

He furrowed his brow. "What?"

 

She lifts her chin. "Your new orders from Moscow, I presume. They can't be happy that you're screwing an East German defector from a family of Nazis." Her tone was like razor wire.

 

"They don't know," he said. "I wasn't sure before." He awkwardly returned the engagement ring to her vanity, set the detector beside it.

 

If Oleg knew - the thought made him sick - if Oleg knew that he was fucking Agent Gabriella Teller, he would expect Illya to be reporting highly classified pieces of British Intelligence, or he would order Illya to kill Gaby to prove his loyalty. Illya knew his handler, he knew how Oleg's mind worked. Ending a romance was far, far too pedestrian for him.

 

Gaby looked even more furious. "So," she said tightly. "You just–" she made a flitting gesture with her hand. "You're just done with me."

 

He stepped forward. " никогда," he said. "Never." He reached for her face, wanting to cup the curve of her cheek with his palm.

 

She caught his wrist before he could.

 

"Then what?" Her eyes searched his face.

 

He owed her the truth. He knew that. But he'd sworn to himself he would not tell her what he did - what he'd done - away from the auspices of U.N.C.L.E.

"Illya," she asked, the anger slowly draining from her eyes. "What happened?"

 

He said nothing. He wasn't strong enough to say something that would make her stop looking at him with that soft, dark look in her eyes, that would prevent her from bringing his hand the rest of the way to her face, leaning into his touch and holding his hand to her cheek with both of her small, capable ones.

 

For the first time, he thought he might understand his father and Napoleon Solo, might understand the irresistible urge to take something that didn't belong to him. Only instead of money or paintings it was Gaby, looking up at him like he was a man she could love.

 

She closed her eyes, lashes inky black, as he stroked his thumb across her cheekbone, marveled at the softness of her skin.

 

They stood together for a long time, his head bent, her face upturned. Then Gaby pouted at him, reached out to poke him in the stomach. He realized that she had forgiven him his unexplained rudeness, that she wasn't going to press for answers.

 

"After a week away, the cold shoulder is no way to greet _your woman,"_ she mimicked his accent. "I should put you over _my_ knee."

 

"It would be deserved," he admitted, his tone heavy, too serious for the playful look on Gaby's face.

 

"Oh, really?" Gaby raised her eyebrows, laughed.

 

Illya swallowed, but he didn't take the words back.

 

She stepped closer to him. He rested his hand on her bare shoulder, brushed his thumb along the delicate line of her collarbone.

 

"Oh, _really?_ " she said again, intrigued and arch.

 

He could step back, he should, demand that Gaby forget whatever wicked thoughts were making her eyes glint. He shouldn't want whatever Gaby was going to give him.

 

Illya nodded, the motion jerky.

 

He was watching closely, so he noticed the way that Gaby's breath quickened when she reached for his belt. She kept her eyes on his as she unbuckled it, the leather hissing softly as she slid it out of the loops of his pants.

 

She wet her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue.

 

Illya was already hard.

 

"Take off your shirt," she instructed.

 

He did. He carefully unbuttoned his cuffs, the shirt itself. His fingers were steady. He wanted to be perfect for her. He laid his shirt over the back of the chair at her vanity and then took a knee at the foot of her bed.

 

Gaby stepped behind him, leaned down, and bit lightly at his shoulder. "You want this?" her voice was husky. "You're certain?"

 

"Yes."

 

She stepped back, shifting her feet, standing balanced behind him. The first hit was clumsy, too soft, nothing but a tangle of leather awkwardly bumping at his shoulder. The second was better, barely. On the third, she got the angle and the force correct. The belt whistled through the air, slapped his shoulder with a clap of sound. The pain came a moment after, bright and perfect.

 

His clever Gaby, that was all the time she needed to learn how to punish him.

 

The first nine blows had the world reducing to electric anticipation and then the bright bite of leather against his skin. The tenth landed on the exact same spot as her last strike, a burst of sharper pain that brought the world into razor focus.

 

The whistle of leather through the air. The crack of it against his shoulder blades. His back was hot, stinging. His skin was slick with sweat. He knelt with his fists clenched tight, his cock pressed painfully against the zipper of his slacks.

 

Illya breathed through it, held himself still for her. There was nothing in his head but the pain and his awareness of Gaby. She was just behind him, light on the balls of her feet, breathing quiet, her strikes steady and methodical.

 

The inside of his head was quiet.

 

The belt landed on his back for the twenty-seventh time.

 

It didn't fall again.

 

He swayed, delayed reaction, his balance thrown off when he realized that she'd stopped.

 

Gaby tossed the belt across the room. It clattered when it hit the radiator and then the floor. She circled around him, settled herself on the end of the bed. Her hair clung to her temples, curled against her neck. Her sweat had ruined her foundation and he could see the freckles that dusted her cheeks, her nose. She'd bitten her lipstick away and her lips were plump and pink from the drag of her teeth. He wanted to lean forward and soothe her mouth with his kisses, wanted to push his face between her thighs.

 

"No," she said clearly when he reached for her.

 

His face must have reflected his confusion because she continued. "Touch yourself."

 

He obeyed, very slowly. He unbuttoned, then unzipped his trousers. He wrapped his fingers around his dick, stroked himself lightly.

 

Gaby scoffed.

 

She gripped his hair tightly, pulled his head back. "You expect me to believe you touch yourself like that? No hand but your own until me, and you're _dainty_ about it?"

 

His face burned with his blush. His cock was in his hand and the heat of shame curled in his veins.

 

(He would never forget her reaction to him confessing his inexperience. For an instant, she'd looked predatory, possessive, and then she'd said, utterly blasé, "Good. No bad habits." She'd told him how she liked to be touched, guided his hands, his mouth, used him to bring herself off. She'd never told anyone, Illya knew, because if she had, word would have worked its way back to Solo, and Solo would be been unremitting in his commentary.)

 

She was right; that wasn't how he touched himself.

 

He tightened his grip, sped up.

 

Gaby hummed approvingly. She let go of his hair, settled herself more comfortably on the end of the bed. She pulled her underwear off, taking care when she eased it over her heels, and tossed it in the same direction as Illya's belt. She spread her thighs, her aubergine skirt runching up as she cupped her mound, ground against the heel of her hand.

 

"What do you imagine, when you're jerking yourself off?" she said, the coarse words rolling easily off her tongue.

 

"You," he said in Russian, the word dragged out of him. And then he continued, drunk with the pleasure of his hand on his cock, the sharp sting all across his back, and Gaby's impossibly dark eyes, watching him. He could smell sweat and her arousal, her knees almost brushing his chest. "Your mouth, sucking me, servicing me, your nails in my back - you say my name, you beg me for it–" he fantasized about her being as desperate for him as he was for her. He wasn't sure if she understood him, but he thought she did, from the way she moved her hand, spread her thighs wider. She allowed him to see her fingers pressing pink, glistening flesh.

Gaby crooked her fingers inside herself and came with a cry. That did it. Gaby's sounds of pleasure had him spilling across his fingers.

 

~~~~

 

After, Illya lay prone on the soft sheets of Gaby's bed while she stroked something cool and astringent all across the skin of his back.

 

He felt hazy from pleasure, his muscles lax.

 

He knew that Gaby wasn't as satisfied as he was, despite the climax she'd given herself, despite the orgasm he'd wrung from her with his mouth, after. There was an odd hitch to her breathing, like she was stopping herself from saying something.

 

Finally, she finished and set the jar of ointment on the bedside table. She curled on her side, facing him.

 

He pushed himself up enough to lean over and gently kiss her, the muscles of his back protesting the motion.

 

"Thank you," he said, inadequately.

 

That made her frown deepen.

 

He reached for her hand, tangled their fingers together.

 

Gaby opened her mouth and then bit her bottom lip hard.

 

She rolled onto her back, stared up at the ceiling, said nothing. She didn't let go of his hand.

 

If he was less of a coward, he'll tell her to speak, but he was afraid of what she might say, of what she might ask him.

 

Instead he focused on the way her hand clasped his, the way their joined hands rested on her belly, how he could feel each breath she took.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to chat about TMFU or anything else, my [tumblr is here](http://swimthroughthefires.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

There were two vehicles watching the exits of a rundown apartment building in East Berlin, which was why Illya and Solo came in through the skylight located above the main stairwell.

 

The hallway was empty but Illya kept a sharp eye out as they headed to apartment #407, his gun in his hand. At the door, Napoleon picked the lock, silently, and so quickly that it couldn't have opened faster if they'd had a key.

 

They slipped inside. The apartment was dark but Illya had no doubt that it was occupied. He could feel tension of someone’s attention, smell the coppery tang of fresh blood.

 

Napoleon drifted into the living room and said casually, "Your uncle sends his regards."

 

There was a crack of laughter.

 

Napoleon knelt down next to Agent Ambrose, clicked on his penlight. The illumination revealed him to be a brown-haired man of about the same age as Illya.

He was sitting with his back to the wall, gun in his hand, blood leaking through the bandage wrapped around his left thigh and dripping down to stain the carpet. He was worryingly pale with blood loss.

 

"The rest of your team?" asked Napoleon.

 

"Dead," Ambrose said and his face twisted with pain that likely had nothing to do with his injured leg.

 

Napoleon raised his eyebrows in inquiry. "Did you get the information?"

 

Ambrose tapped two fingers to his forehead.

 

Illya stepped next to the window, peered out through the narrow gap between the window's blinds and the sill.

 

The one Stasi team Illya could see were holding their positions, watching Ambrose's apartment.

 

Illya turned his head to his shoulder, spoke into the radio clipped there. "Queen?"

 

"Black." Through the radio, Gaby's voice sounded cool and very detached. That meant: no movement on the part of the other stasi team she was watching.

 

Napoleon eased Ambrose's coat off, rolling one of his shirt-sleeves up. Napoleon pulled out a prepared syringe and gave the other man a quick shot. Then he propped the man's injured leg up, started to wrap another layer of bandages across the bloodied ones that already circled his thigh.

 

Even with the painkiller, Ambrose was white-faced, sweat clinging to his forehead as Napoleon worked. "When Waverly said he was sending a bishop, I told him I wasn't quite ready for my last rites." He hissed in a breath as Napoleon finished.

 

"I'm reconsidering," Ambrose bit out.

 

"Are you finished?" Illya asked Napoleon brusquely.

 

"Not quite yet," Ambrose said through his teeth.

 

Napoleon held up his hands, his black gloves gleaming with blood.

 

"All yours, Rook," he said.

 

Careful to keep out of sight, so not even shadows or movement would be visible to anyone watching, Illya bent, pulled Ambrose into a fireman's carry.

 

Ambrose swore, vicious and almost silent.

 

"I hope you don't mind if I borrow these?" Napoleon asked, picking up Ambrose's jacket and swiping a crumpled hat that had been tossed to the floor closer to the door.

 

"Not in the slightest," Ambrose answered.

 

Napoleon pulled the hat low on his forehead, flipped the collar of the jacket up. He had already affected a painful-looking limp as he and Illya left the apartment.

"Princess, I trust you're ready to be wonderfully distracting this evening," Napoleon murmured into the radio in a tone that Illya had heard him use on countless woman in countless countries, right before they traipsed into his bed.

 

"'Princess' is not her code name," Illya snapped.

 

Napoleon sighed eloquently and began to limp down the stairs. Illya went up, climbing back through the skylight and to the roof. Ambrose was quiet, only letting slip the barest hisses of pain, as Illya carried him, the man's body was stiff and awkward to manage. It would be easier if he were unconscious, and Illya wished that they'd decided to use stronger painkillers. Or if Ambrose didn't have intelligence inside his skill that couldn't be risked by a knock on the head.

 

"I suggest we put a moratorium on Rook choosing names," Napoleon continued into the radio.

 

"Tch," Illya made a small, irritated sound. He hadn't meant for it to be loud enough for the radio to pick up, but given that Gaby laughed softly, it had been.

 

Napoleon didn't continue his chattering, which Illya knew meant that he was in the sight of the Stasi agents, limping to Ambrose's car. Illya watched the second hand on his father's watch tick forward. Three minutes later, sirens shrieked and there was the sounds of driving from both Napoleon's and Gaby's radios.

 

Illya took the distraction, leaping to the next building. He carried Ambrose away from his partners. Within eight minutes he was out of radio range of both of them. Illya frowned to himself. He might not enjoy Napoleon's idle quips but he didn't like not knowing what was happening while the Stasi chased Napoleon and Gaby through the streets of Berlin.

 

Ambrose moaned softly in Illya's ear and Illya picked up his pace. Three blocks from the Berlin Wall he climbed off the rooftops, down a fire escape, and carried Ambrose the rest of the way at street level.

 

He reached the extraction point with no problems, a relatively quiet strip of the wall. It was especially quiet tonight, when Illya could hear the very distant sounds of sirens.

 

Ambrose was still slung over his shoulders, still breathing heavily. Illya was aware of just how horribly suspicious this was, and kept his eyes on the surrounding buildings, watching for the twitch of curtains that could reveal an observer.

 

There was a muffled clatter. Illya looked up to see a pretty young woman of about Gaby's age lean over the Wall. Her auburn hair was shoved up under a base-ball cap.

 

Ambrose craned his neck to look up at her.

 

"Penny, you are a sight for sore eyes," he commented.

 

Illya had worked with Doctor Penny Jones on two previous occasions. Waverley tended to send her out on field missions where the chance of injury was high and going to official medical establishments unwise. She was skilled, efficient, and particularly adept with bullet wounds. Illya's only negative opinion of her was related to the fact that she found Napoleon's flirting _terribly_ amusing.

Penny scrambled down the wall, digging into the bag slung across her chest the moment her toes touched the ground.

 

"I bet you say that to all the girls with morphine," she said in her American accent, pulling out another syringe.

 

Why was Illya surrounded by people who insisted on witty patter at every conceivable junction? He forced himself to hold still while she gave Ambrose a second dose of what Illya presumed was a painkiller.

 

"Just the pretty ones," Ambrose replied.

 

Illya scoffed, seething with impatience.

 

"Okay, let's get this show on the road," Penny said. Between her and Illya, they raised Ambrose (now limp with analgesics and much more malleable) to the top of the first wall. U.N.C.L.E. had provided a rather ingenious contraption to get them across. There was a long flexible ladder that bridged the two walls, stretching across the minefield. Attached to it was a modified stretcher.

 

Illya made sure to pay attention to it, so he could describe in detail to Gaby later this - he checked his father's watch - this morning.

 

Penny positioned Ambrose on the stretcher. She crouched over him, her hands on the stretcher's sides, her feet on the rungs, like a runner before the starting gun went off.

 

"You heading West, Agent?" Penny asked.

 

"Not tonight," Illya answered.

 

She didn't hesitate a moment, half sliding and half running with Ambrose and his stretcher across no-man's-land and into West Berlin.

 

Illya touched the brim of his cap and jumped off the wall.

 

Finishing his part of this mission hadn't ameliorated the twisting impatience in his chest. There was nothing left for him to do but return to the safe house and wait for Gaby and Napoleon. He could still hear sirens wailing plaintively down distant streets. Cowboy and his Chop Shop Girl were clearly giving them a run for their money.

 

He made it back to the safe house before either of them.

 

That was as planned, but Illya didn't have to like it. He paced back and forth, carefully not to let the floorboards creak under his weight.

 

He checked his watch, repeatedly.

 

He was out of radio range but he checked the trackers both Solo and Gaby were wearing. Solo's was transmitting intermittently and not in any kind of code (Illya checked) which was as expected, if he was returning through the metro tunnels as planned. Gaby's tracker was completely dark. Disabled or out of range. Only the fact that he had no information on where to begin searching for her - and knowing that driving around East Berlin at four o'clock in the morning in a grid pattern was an excellent way to draw the attention of the Stasi - kept him in the apartment.

 

Finally, Napoleon's tracker began emitting consistently, and nearby.

 

Illya was staring at the door, arms crossed, drumming his fingers impatiently across his left bicep when Napoleon _finally_ entered the flat.

 

"The nightlife in East Germany gets less enjoyable each time I visit," Solo said flippantly, closing the door softly.

 

He shifted his weight, looked behind Illya, glanced at the open washroom door, and Illya saw the rakish expression on his face drop away.

 

"Peril, where's Gaby?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a few bonus fics that don't fit into the main continuity of this story that I will be posting soon, so keep an eye out for those (they'll be tagged as part of this series).
> 
> My tumblr is [here](http://swimthroughthefires.tumblr.com/).


	5. Chapter 5

At 3:17 a.m. on May 21st, 1965, Agent Gabriella Teller was arrested by the _Ministerium für Staatssicherheit._

 

Kuryakin carried the injured Agent Ambrose to the extraction point as Solo limped his way out of Ambrose's apartment building, wearing Ambrose's coat, Ambrose's hat tipped low on his forehead, heading toward the other agent's vehicle.

 

Solo slid into the driver's seat, peeling his lips back as the tacky blood on the seat clung at the leg of his trousers. He pulled out onto the street, the first Stasi car on his tail.

 

Before the second could, Teller came to a shrieking halt, right beside them, blocking their car and preventing them from following. The officers shouted at her, flicked on their siren.

 

Teller teasingly reversed her car just enough that they could almost pull out, and then drove forward again. One of the agents threw open the door and the instant he was fully out of the car, Teller pressed the accelerator and rocketed into the night.

 

The second Stasi vehicle followed her, instead of Solo, just as planned.

 

The beginning of the mission unfurled exactly as it had been drafted out in London, blue prints and maps spread out across a conference table, the corners held down by mission reports and cups of coffee, pencil marks leading from one map to another.

 

Solo and Teller raced through the streets, traveling in the same direction on parallel avenues.

 

Teller sped ahead of Solo and then took a sharp right, letting her tail stay close. Then she floored it. She crossed the intersection heading East, right behind Solo traveling North, and almost managed to get her tail to ram into the vehicle chasing Solo.

 

"Well played, princess," Solo laughed into his radio as the cars swerved around each other but didn't collide.

 

Teller glanced in the rear mirror, frowned. "Barely decent," she muttered. She eased off the accelerator, gave the driver behind her time to get a little closer before she turned left. She didn't lose them, but she made sure they didn't come closer than half a block.

 

The driver behind Solo possessed more skill. Despite the near miss, he managed to catch up. Solo took a sharp right turn and the Stasi driver made one sharper, cutting across the sidewalk and slamming the sides of their cars together.

 

Solo jerked the wheel, dodging, and drove over a pothole deep enough that it snagged his tire. There was a wrench, a tearing pop, and then the driver's side front wheel came completely off.

 

The car skidded on a bare axel, sparks fluming up. Solo managed to keep the car from flipping as it skipped to a stop in the middle of the street. In the middle of the empty street.

 

The Stasi car after Solo braked hard, three agents leaping out, guns in hand.

 

Solo pulled his pistol, ducked behind the seat back.

 

Half a kilometer away, Teller spun her car into a handbrake turn and slammed her foot flat to the floor. She blasted past the car chasing her (they swerved reflexively out of her way).

 

"Where are you?" she said into her radio.

 

Solo gave her the cross-streets instantly. "There's three of them," he added. "All armed."

 

Teller was already turning down the street, Solo's car, the Stasi car, and the Stasi agents in her headlights. She aimed right for the officers, forcing them to dive frantically out of her way.

 

Solo opened the passenger door, slithered out, and ran lightly towards the nearest alley, keeping his attention on the Stasi officers and Teller.

 

She shrieked to a halt bumper-to-bumper with the Stasi car and, playing a hunch, bumped it. She pushed it forward, scrunched so far down that she had to peer through the steering wheel. She gave the other car enough momentum that it rolled cheerily forward, slammed into a parked car, hood crumpling. There was a hiss from the cracked radiator, steam spitting out into cool night air.

 

The officers scrambled to their feet, started running towards her..

 

One was quick on the draw; he had time for one shot at Teller, the bullet embedding harmlessly in the frame before Solo put a bullet in the back of his head.

 

Solo set his jaw and shot the officer directly next to him.

 

The last Stasi officer dove for the ground, out of Solo's sight.

 

The car that had been pursuing Teller screeched around the corner.

 

Teller cranked the wheel, hit the gas and rocketed away, taking a quick turn down the nearest side street. Solo ducked into an alley, picked up his pace.

 

"Bishop?" Teller asked, swerving onto a broader avenue and shifting up the gears. "Are you doing all right?"

 

"I'm deeply regretting my choice of footwear this evening," Solo replied.

 

"But besides that?" Her words cracked tinnily over the radio.

 

"Besides that," he stopped, listened carefully. No sounds of pursuit. "I'm quite well. That car chase did wonders for my limp. You?"

 

Teller snorted, checked the review mirror. "Just one car. Losing him is not going to be a challenge."

 

The sole surviving officer of the vehicle that had been chasing Solo finished crawling to the damaged car. He could tell at a glance that the engine was a total loss but the radio - the radio worked perfectly.

 

The chase continued.

 

Teller put her foot against the floor, leading away from Solo, increasing the distance between her and the car behind. She pressed her foot flat to the floor.

 

A second Stasi car turned onto the road right behind her, lights flashing and siren on.

 

Teller glanced at the mirror twice in quick succession, checking that, yes, there were now two cars behind her, the new one just behind her bumper.

 

It pulled up alongside her.

 

She glanced over, saw two officers in the front seat. She slammed on her breaks, swing the front of her car into the rear panel of theirs as she decelerated. She ended up with her car pointing towards a cross street and hit the gas again. The other car pinwheeled across the street and right into a lamppost with a crash. In the rearview mirror, Teller saw glass spray across the sidewalk.

 

Three blocks blew past, and she only had one pursuer again. Then two new Stasi cars turned onto the road in front of her, headlights in her face. One skidded to a stop, blocking as much of the road as he could. The other headed directly for her, bearing down.

 

Teller tightened her grip on the steering wheel, let him think she was going to play chicken with him.

 

Meters from a head on collision she dashed up onto the sidewalk. There were three parked cars in a row and she used them to prevent the other car from ramming her. Her passenger side mirror snapped off against one of the parked cars. The second Stasi car in front of her tried to cut her off, but he was moving slow and she muscled past him. The grinding scrap of metal against metal. She felt the impact all through the frame of the car, but her car shuddered and kept moving.

 

She returned to the center of the road, her original Statsi pursuer behind her still. She let him pull up along side and then with no finesse at all, slammed her car into his. She forced him to the side of the road, tires shrieking, and crashed him into a building. She saw flames out of the corner of her eyes and kept driving.

 

For six fast breaths, her rearview mirror was clear. She had time to consider the closest place to dump the car, the best way for her to get off the streets, and then metal ripped into all four of her tires.

 

They'd spiked the road.

 

Teller jerked forward, managed to slam her forehead against her own wrist instead of the steering wheel as the car jerked to a stop.

 

A Stasi officer dashed from where he'd been crouched behind a parked car to the side of Teller's.

 

She pushed herself upright. The officer was at her window, a gun pointed at her face.

 

There was a long beat.

 

Teller had a gun on the passenger seat next to her. She could slam open the door, make a break for it.

 

It would be very easy to get herself shot.

 

She slowly raised her hands off the steering wheel, gave the officer her best unimpressed look.

 

He jerked the door open, grabbed her shoulder and dragged her out. She scrambled to get her feet under her but the officer gave her shin a vicious kick and shoved her to her knees and then her belly. Teller turned her head, managed to keep from breaking her nose on the cement.

 

The officer wrenched her hands back. The handcuffs clicked cold around her wrists.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long delay after that cliffhanger. The next (and final!) chapter should be up next week. 
> 
> In case it's been so long that you've forgotten, when we last left our spies, Gaby had been arrested by the Stasi. Illya and Solo had just realized what had happened to her.
> 
> Much love to takiki16, my beta, whose help was invaluable.

He and Napoleon backtracked. They found the street where Gaby and Napoleon had separated and followed the trail of wrecked cars. There were municipal workers already working on clearing the vehicles and sweeping up broken glass.

Solo drove, one elbow carelessly propped on the open window. Illya sat next to him, watching his instruments, fingers tapping.

Nothing, nothing, and then he picked up Gaby's tracker. It led he and Solo directly to the headquarters of the Stasi.

It was an ugly, blocky, beige building, the windows reflecting the grey light. It dominated the busy street in squatted next to, vehicles moving in a steady stream in front of the building, some pulling into the drive in front, most passing by.

Solo did as well, keeping his speed steady, while the tone change from Illya's instruments erased any minute doubt that Gaby might merely be nearby, instead of held inside.

"She's there," Illya said, voice rough. He tossed his receiver into the back seat, opened the door, and Napoleon pressed down on the accelerator, passing the car in front of them and causing oncoming traffic to swerve away.

Illya swore, let the door slam closed.

"The _Stasi_ have _Gaby_ ," Illya bit off the words. Didn't Napoleon realize this was her nightmares come true? She was all alone and at the mercy of her government. Her former government.

"We need a plan," Solo said, "one that doesn't involve you leaping from a moving car and breaking your legs first thing."

Illya wanted to argue, opening his mouth to do so but couldn't force a single word past his tight throat. He twisted in his seat, glaring back at the building like he could peel away the glass and stone, force it to reveal Gaby to him.

Napoleon kept speeding away.

"If you go in there now and kick at the hornet's nest, Gaby is going to get shot," he paused. "You too, probably, but Gaby shouldn't get killed because you can't control your temper."

Illya slammed his fist into the dashboard, plastic cracking.

"I am perfectly calm," he bit out.

Napoleon gave a theatrical little sigh. He was headed back to their safe house. It made every instinct in Illya's body shriek but he knew it was the only tactically sound decision.

"We'll contact Waverly," Napoleon said, after a long beat. Illya recognized the sound of him plotting. "He'll have contacts–"

Illya scoffed. "He'll do exactly what he did when the Vinciguerras had her. He'll send us or–"

Or Waverly would cut his losses.

Illya swallowed. "Or he'll do nothing," he said hollowly.

Napoleon didn't argue. He parked the car in front of the apartment complex that contained their safe house, followed as Illya slammed his way out of the car and stomped up the stairs.

Inside, Napoleon started talking again. "I have some CIA contacts in East Berlin. I can reach out them."

"Pointless," Illya derided. "You plan on chit-chatting while they hurt Gaby?"

"Okay, Peril, what's _your_ brilliant plan?" Napoleon snapped. The tendons in his neck stood out and Illya suddenly remembered that Gaby was his friend as well as Illya's - as well what she was to Illya.

"Tonight, I will walk in and demand that Gaby be released to me." Illya felt the weight of the words in his mouth.

Napoleon blinked at him and then laughed. "And the Stasi will just wrap her in a bow and hand her over?"

Illya straightened his shoulders. "I wait until the higher ranking officers have left. I walk in. I am an officer of the KGB. She is a person of importance to the USSR. They will release her to me."

Napoleon opened his mouth, closed it. He walked past Illya. Bracing a hand on the top of the window frame, he stared out for a moment. "That might actually work," he said.

There were a dozen reasons why that plan wouldn't work.

"It will work," said Illya.

Napoleon turned back to face the room. "I know a few forgers in East Berlin, but I don't know if any of them are good enough to fake those kinds of credentials."

Illya stared at him incredulously. "Cowboy, did you hit your head? I. Am. An. Officer. Of. The. KGB."

Napoleon cocked his head. The motion was casual but his eyes were ice-cold and his voice was almost mocking. "And you're willing to do it? To do this under your own name? It'll get back to Moscow. There's no way to spin this into anything but treason."

The words sounded bitter, to Illya's ears. But nothing compared to the cold turmoil that twisted through his blood at the thought of his Chop Shop Girl injured and alone. Or dead.

"It's Gaby," Illya said. He couldn't explain it any clearer.

"It is," said Napoleon. He was as unreadable as Illya had ever seen him.

The rest of the day was interminable. Illya was conscious of every tick of the second hand on his father's watch. He showered, shaved, dressed in the uniform that was packed in the very bottom of his suitcase. He cleaned his sidearm, tucked a knife into his boot. That was all the preparation required. The rest was waiting for the day to grow late enough that the building would mostly be staffed by lower ranking members. Late enough that there would be less people in the building. Late enough that he could bulldoze his way through

Napoleon spent the day being obnoxious.

He pretended to be relaxed enough to nap on the couch in the living room, shifting from one languid pose to another with a squeak of worn springs every few minutes. Then he wandered into the kitchen to prepare an early dinner, opening and closing every cabinet over and over again, clattering pots, complaining about inferior tools.

It took him an unbelievably long amount of time to create something that looked very much like a sandwich when he come back into the living room and set it down with a flourish in front of Illya. It tasted like chalk when Illya choked it down.

Then Napoleon thankfully retreated to the roof to smoke, leaving Illya with nothing but the ticking of his watch, his memories of Gaby. He turned this over in his mind, every indelible moment he'd ever spent with her, inextricably mixed with every way he knew how to hurt someone, every way they could be hurting her. For all her strength and ferocity, Gaby was still a small woman. How hard would it be, to snap her neck? To squeeze a trigger and reduce her all her vibrancy to bone and slowly cooling meat?

He went into the bedroom. He'd never unpacked, and so preparing to leave this safe house only required him to click his suitcase closed.

Illya had hung up Gaby's things - nondescript trousers and unremarkable blouses - when they arrived, and her toiletries where lined up on the window sill. He tucked and folded them away into her luggage, concentrating very hard to keep his hands from shaking so badly he couldn't do this simple task.

It was almost a relief when Napoleon returned from the roof to irritatingly spend forty minutes fussing with his hair, before shrugging into an unremarkable jacket and tugging on a beret.

He slipped his gun into his shoulder holster, tucked his lockpicking equipment into a pocket of his jacket, and they descended with the luggage to the car.

They would not be returning to this safehouse.

~~~

Illya strode into Stasi Headquarters.

The receptionist who helmed the front desk jerked from her slump into a frantically perfect posture at the sound of his boots on the floor.

"Good evening," he snapped in German. "I'm here-"

"Officer Kuryakin!" a voice called out. "Officer Kuryakin! I didn't expect you to arrive so soon."

Illya pivoted to see Hans Werner coming toward him, beaming. His blond hair was neatly slicked back and his face had been washed recently, but not well enough to completely get the rim of blood from around his nostrils. His uniform slacks were wrinkled; clearly he'd been at work for hours and had not just come on shift.

For one wild moment, Illya assumed his cover was blown. It was almost a relief. He'd need to shoot Werner, then the receptionist. The receptionist would have no useful information at her desk, so he'd have to go room by room, to find Gaby–

"When I called the Kremlin, they gave no indication that you'd be coming. She's right this way," Werner was trying to sound formal, but excitement vibrated in his voice.

Werner had been one of the Stasi officers Illya had worked with briefly when Gabriella Teller had first come to the KBG's attention as a path to her father. Werner had been eager and obedient and Illya remembered thinking that if he could manage his tendencies toward effusiveness, he would rise high in the ranks.

That had been just over a year ago, when Illya had been tasked with keeping Gaby in the shadow of the USSR. It felt unreal. It felt like a mission given to a different man.

Werner couldn't help but continue as he led Illya through he building:

"She wasn't carrying any papers but I recognized Teller. I heard a rumor that she ended up working with MI6 after she escaped over the wall?" He looked at Illya, clearly wanting some form of confirmation and then continued on, unable to wait for it. "She's a known defector, but to return- is she really MI6 or is she a nazi like her father?"

"Classified," Illya managed to grind out from between his teeth.

It was a stroke of unholy luck: in his diligence, Werner had cast the pieces of Illya's cover story in truth. A call had been made to the Kremlin, and thus it was expected that an officer of the KGB would come for Gaby. Illya wouldn't have any trouble claiming that she was too valuable to be kept here. Werner knew that Gaby had been a mission to him a year ago, in the beginning, and was unlikely to demand to see paperwork about it.

Werner gestured for Illya to follow him into the observation room, and Illya's first sight of Gaby was from behind a two way mirror.

She was handcuffed and chained to a ring in the center of the table. Her knuckles were bloody and he could see, from how she held her hands, that there were fingers broken. Gaby had a contusion on her right temple that had left a line of dried blood along the side of her face. Her left eyebrow was split open, and so was her bottom lip, in two places, her face swollen along her cheeks. Her eyes were clear and defiant - she'd angled her head when she was struck, kept them from blackening her eyes and swelling them shut.

Illya's hands shook.

They'd hurt her. They'd hurt her and he was going to kill them all for it. It wouldn't even be a challenge. He'd go room by room, he'd put down every single person who had laid a hand on her, who had watched Gaby slapped and struck, who had sat in their office and drunk coffee and not even known what was happening a room or two away.

He'd start with the boy looking eagerly between Illya and the woman behind the glass, like he expected Illya to toss him a treat.

It wouldn't be hard to snap his neck. Then Illya would rip Gaby free, and after that go room by room – no that wouldn't work, that would put Gaby in danger but–

Gaby was glaring at the mirror.

She'd worn that expression with her hands tight on his wrists, ordering him to do something he loathed. Illya pretended she was standing right before him, that he could feel her fingers on his wrists, holding him back, that he could hear her voice, low and angry, giving him his orders.

His hands stilled. Right now, killing wouldn't make Gaby safe. He needed to get her out clearly, without harm. Without further harm. For her, he'd leash the psychotic wolf howling in his blood.

Illya realized that Werner was talking: "–she hasn't said a work about what she'd doing here. We took her boots after she kicked Scholz in the balls." He touched his nose carefully. "She didn't like that at all."

"Keys," Illya said, and held out his hand.

Werner handed over the handcuff keys and made as if to follow Illya out of the observation room.

"Your help is not necessary," Illya said through gritted teeth.

Werner rocked back on his heels. "Are you certain, sir? She's a fucking hellcat. "

Illya didn't give him an answer.

Gaby looked up when he entered, jaw set. She had an excellent poker face. No one would have guessed that he was the cavalry. She shifted away from him as he loomed over her, unlocked the chain that connected her handcuffs to the table.

The instant it was free, she sprang away from him, kicking the chair into his legs. He didn't let her get away, dragged her back towards him with a yank on the link of the handcuffs, hauling her over the chair and into the meager space between the table and the door. She snarled at him, soundless, tried to yank her hands free, tried to knee him in the balls, scraped her bare foot down his shin when he twisted away.

There wasn't an ounce of artifice in her struggle. Her eyes were dark and wild in her bruised face.

She didn't recognize him.

The uniform, his face shadowed by the brim of his cap - she didn't recognize him.

He remembered taking her into his arms, that first time in Italy, when she'd been dazed and injured and had looked at him with her eyes gone soft. In Venice, she'd jumped from a second story window into his arms. In Rio, she'd dragged him bleeding and concussed into her car, and driven hell for leather to the nearest hospital before he bled out. She'd taken him to her bed, her fingers had touched every centimeter of his body. He'd loved with her for months, told her things he'd thought he'd take to his grave.

He'd come to rescue her and she thought he was here to deliver her to worse abuses.

He grabbed her by her shoulders, slammed her against the glass partition, trying to get her to look at his face.

She tried to kick his throat.

He ducked his head and her heel cracked against his face, knocking his hat to the floor. She twisted away from the glass, trying to get free. He pinned her shoulders against it, staring at her, waiting for her next attack.

Gaby gasped, checked her next kick.

Before Werner could realize she'd recognized him, Illya slung her over his shoulder.

"Any more of that, I'll break your neck," he declared as he headed for the door.

He rested a hand on Gaby's low back, keeping her in place. He could feel the tension of her body. With her head down and hair loose, her hands were hidden, and she kept them close to the pistol at his waist.

Werner leaned out of the observations room.

"Sir, do you need-"

"No," Illya said and headed for the door.

He strode out of the building, the receptionist staring after him with wide eyes. But no alarm was raised as he descending the steps, Gaby still on his shoulder. In the silence, he heard his own footsteps and the rapid pace of her breathing, the one way she couldn't quite force her lungs to pull in air evenly.

He opened the back door of the car and set her down. He tried to guide her into the car but Gaby threw herself into the backseat before his hands could touch her. She scrambled over Napoleon's shoulder and into the passenger seat.

Illya barely had time to get inside the car before Napoleon depressed the accelerator and the car zoomed into the street.

Gaby stared past him, out the rear window, gazed fixed on the Stasi headquarters, watching for pursuit, for the alarm to be raised.

Napoleon glanced between her and the road, pulled a lockpick out of his jacket at the same time Illya offered the handcuff keys.

Gaby snatched them out of his hand and then pressed herself as far away from him as she could get while she unlocked them.

She hissed when the cuffs came away. Her wrists were bruised black, swollen and abraded red where the skin had broken. She touched her wrists carefully and Illya tried to establish which of her fingers were broken and which were bruised.

Gaby slowly raised her eyes to Illya.

He turned his head away, shame heavy in his throat.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, final chapter! I want to thank all my readers, especially the ones who left comments letting me know that you were still interested in knowing how things were going to turn out for Gaby and Illya! Your encouragement meant so much. 
> 
> As always, feel free to hit me up at [my tumblr](http://swimthroughthefires.tumblr.com/).

From where Illya stood, he could see light shining through the curtains of Gaby's apartment.

She should be asleep. It was late, even for a spy. Even for a spy who suffered from insomnia.

In the five weeks since their return to London, he'd done his best to stay out of Gaby's sight.

It hadn't been a challenge. There was always plenty of work at U.N.C.L.E and Waverly had no use for idle hands. He was sent on long surveillance details to unsavory parts of London. The rest of the time he holed up in a little used office at H.Q., doing translation work, or at the gym, battering punching bags apart.

But the truth was, Gaby hadn't come looking for him. It was easy to hide away when no one was seeking.

Three weeks ago, Illya had looked in the mirror while shaving and noticed that the bruises Gaby's foot had left on his cheekbone were no longer discernable. Deep purple-black had turned to a sickly yellow and then faded entirely away.

 _Those were the last marks she'll ever leave on you,_ Illya had thought. He'd put his fist through the mirror. That hadn't helped quell the sorrow and sick rage inside of him. He'd ripped the mirror's backing off the wall, tossed it aside, before curling over, shaking hands clutching the edge of the sink, shards of glass biting at his palms.

The splints and bandages had come off Gaby's fingers a week ago. Napoleon had taken her pick-pocketing at Waterloo Station to celebrate and work on recovering her dexterity. He'd relayed this to Illya in a leading tone, like he'd expected that information to incite Illya to some course of action. Illya had stared at him blankly.

Tonight, he stood in the alley across the street from Gaby's apartment. He leaned against a brick wall, ignored the rain that dripped off the brim of his cap, soaked through the shoulders of his jacket.

Illya had never minded the cold, but tonight he felt it, the wind a wet, leaching thing that sucked his body heat away. But maybe it wasn't the wind or the damp that made tonight so cold. Maybe it was the thought of Gaby, sleepless, avoiding her dreams. Or the memory of Gaby's bed and Gaby's skin and Gaby's laugh, the hundred warm, soft details of her and her life that he'd had for a brief time and then lost.

He watched Gaby's shadow cross the curtains. She paused, pulled the curtains away, looked out at the night.

Illya slunk back deeper into the shadows of the alley, memorizing the golden oval of her face in the lamp-light, the dark cloud of her hair, her down-turned mouth.

  
She looked sad; she looked alive.

Watching her, Illya felt hollow. But not regretful. Never that.

She let the curtain fall closed, stepped away from the window.

He'd chosen Gaby's safety over his loyalty to Russia. He didn't regret it. Even if Gaby never looked at him with anything but distance and distrust in her dark, dark eyes, his actions were impossible to regret.

Illya continued to stand, watching Gaby's apartment building.

A few minutes passed and then someone was pushing open the door, stepping out onto the street.

Illya straightened.

She was wearing stripped pajamas, the tops of her pants shoved carelessly into a pair of white boots. She hadn't put on a coat. One arm was holding an umbrella aloft and the other was wrapped around her stomach.

Gaby's eyes arrowed directly to him and she walked across the street to stand in front of him with no hesitation.

She tipped her head back, met his eyes.

"It's past three in the morning," she informed him.

He checked his father's watch. 3:16 a.m.

"Yes," he said. He focused on her face, trying to memorize the nuances of her expression. It struck him again - as it had before - what a beautiful woman she was. Large dark eyes, long lashes, the wonderful curve of her mouth. It seemed impossible to believe that he'd kissed her lips, traced the line of her face with his fingers, buried his hands in her dark hair. For a while, he'd been hers, and he hadn't realized how much of him had hoped that that would always be true.

"You're getting soaked, standing out here," she commented.

He nodded slowly.

Gaby fell silent. Her umbrella tilted back a bit further. The wind was gusting and rain damped the bottom of her pajama pants.

She frowned up at him. He recognized her expression. It was the same one she wore when she was peering down into the guts of a car, deciding if it was worth her time, or if she was going to slam the hood shut and move on.

"Come up," Gaby said, voice husky.

When she turned to return to her apartment, he followed at her heels.

~~~

Illya hovered in the doorway of her bedroom, uncertain. It was heartbreakingly familiar. The vanity, where he'd watched her apply cosmetics. The closet, so many of her clothes chosen by him, a task that only grew more intimate the longer he'd known her, choosing what frocks would best highlight her beauty, examining silk and cotton and knowing it was going to touch skin that he had also touched.

Her bed, where they'd spent hours upon hours together.

"Do you know what's strange?" she asked, casual. He couldn't fathom how she was able to summon up that tone, sounding almost careless as she tucked her umbrella away, toed off her boots.

"The first week in my flat. Every night, I had nightmares about the Stasi coming to arrest me. I was finally safe but." She shrugged, a helpless little gesture.

"Yes," he said heavily, not because the word made any sense as a response, but because she needed to know he'd heard her. And because Gaby needed to hear this, too–

"I have done all those things, from your nightmares."

"I knew," Gaby said. She sounded angry. "I always knew that. Do you think I've forgotten how we met? Do you think I don't know it would be easier to hate you?"

He closed his eyes. He was an idiot, to think she had any romantic delusions about him. Their first meeting had been him chasing her through the streets of East Berlin. But it cut, somehow, to think of her paging through his file, to think of her knowing what he'd done in service to the Motherland, and to know that she'd still brought him to her bed and touched him like she treasured him. It was just loss. The bitter understanding that she'd never touch him like that again.

"But." Gaby was glaring at him, her jaw set mulishly. "I don't think I'm willing to give you up."

She pulled open the top drawer of her dresser, dug under her lingerie before pulling out something metallic, glinting silver in the low light.

The handcuffs from East Berlin.

He was certain it was the same pair, ones that had bound her wrists while cruel men struck her, the ones she had worn when he carried her out over his shoulder, the ones that she'd ripped off her wrists while Napoleon drove away and he couldn't bear to look her in the eyes.

She lifted her eyebrow, just like she had when he'd returned from Moscow and Sverdlovsk, before the sweet sting of his belt across his back and the sweeter taste of her cunt in his mouth.

She didn't say anything, giving him the chance to turn her down. He never would. He couldn't believe she was giving him a chance to–

Illya's fingers shook as he doffed his hat, stripped off his wet jacket as fast as he was able. He kept his eyes on Gaby, waiting for some signal that he was doing the wrong thing but she just looked coolly approving as he undressed, leaving his clothing in a discarded pile on the floor.

She jerked her chin and he went naked to her bed, his cock hard and curving up towards his stomach.

He lay out his back on her bed, wrapped his fingers around the metal balusters of her wrought iron headboard.

Gaby straddled him, still in her striped pajamas, and clicked the handcuffs closed around his wrists, making sure the chain wound between a metal spindle.

This was harder than kneeling for her. His breath was coming quick and he tested the bonds without thinking about it. If someone came storming in, would he be quick enough?

Gaby frowned down at him and he stilled. He forced his body to relax, feeling her weight on his stomach.

It didn't matter what might happen; she wanted him like this, so like this he would stay.

He gazed up at her, waiting for what she would do next.

Which turned out to be lowering her head, her loose hair veiling the rest of the room from him, and pressing her mouth gently, so gently against his.

He couldn't help the little sound he made, his mouth opening under hers.

" _Gaby,"_ he said, voice wrecked.

"Shh," she said and then nipped his bottom lip.

She shifted off him and he almost whined at the loss, but - he craned his neck - he could see that she was slipping out of her pajamas, revealing glorious, tawny skin.

This time, when she straddled him, it was with the warm, silky slide of skin against skin.

"I missed you," Gaby told him, and she sounded angry about it. "Do you know how boring it is, waiting for bones to heal?" She reached between them, gave his cock a long pull.

Illya pressed his head back, his hips coming up, the cuffs rattling.

"I'm sorry," he managed.

Gaby lined them up and sank down, taking him slow. He felt every hot clench of her, her cunt clasping around him as she adjusted to the stretch. She rode him, her hands braced on his stomach, her hips pistoning, driving him deep inside her. Her skin glistened with sweat, hair loose and wild about her shoulders.

He tightened his grip on the bars, felt the metal warp under his fingers.

She fucked him hard, head thrown back in pleasure. Illya had to struggle not to get lost in the sensation, bursts of pleasure running molten through his veins, to the tips of his fingers, the head of his cock, his balls tight against his body.

The handcuffs were a good reminder, the cool pinch of metal at his wrists keeping him focused, reminding him that he must be good for Gaby,

The fear helped with that, too, the fear that Gaby might find that she didn't want him after all, that East Berlin had broken something even his clever little chop shop girl couldn't repair.

She bit her lip, slowed her tempo. She ran her hands along his chest, tracing the delineations of his muscles. Gaby leaned forward, bringing her nipples close enough that if he stretched up, he could press his tongue across one of them.

She gave a little pleased cry at that, slapped one hand down on the bed as he sucked gently, dragged his tongue across her aureole.

Gaby gave a little hum, ground her hips against his. She lowered her chest and he switched to her other breast. He bit gently, this time, knowing she liked it. She'd like it more if he could touch her while he mouthed her nipples. He'd brought her off like that once, his mouth sucking and nipping while he had three fingers deep inside, grinding his palm against her clit.

She pushed his head down and followed, brought her mouth close to his. She reached up, ran a finger along the double strand of the left cuff, her fingernail scraping along the metal. Her eyes were dark in the low light, bewitching.

"Break them," she breathed against his mouth.

He did. One sharp jerk and the links broke apart, freeing his hands. He surged up, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her close, chest to chest. He wrapped his arms around her, kissed her hard, desperately, kisses that left his lips tingling. He rolled her onto her back. There was an instant of worry about his weight on her, but she just rocked her hips against his, her nails digging into his shoulders as she arched under him.

"You're mine," she said, sounding fierce and furious and certain. She ran a finger along the scar on his face, cupped his jaw in her palm. "Illya, you're _mine."_

"Yes," he agreed instantly. He took her wrist and kissed her freshly-healed fingers, kissed the palm of her small, capable hand. "Yours. Only yours."


End file.
